


per aspera ad astra

by mihael_jeevas



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, M/M, Organized Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-09
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:49:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/790017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mihael_jeevas/pseuds/mihael_jeevas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gokudera is having an exceptionally shitty week, and it's only bound to get worse</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is based pretty heavily on mafia stuff, so warnings for murder, violence, drug and human trafficking, and the like. (but that doesn't happen this chapter) otherwise, enjoy.

_Mafia is the consciousness of one's own worth, the exaggerated concept of individual force as the sole arbiter of every conflict, of every clash of interests or ideas._  
 **—Giuseppe Pitrè.**

*

Yamamoto calls him at three the morning to tell him that his apartment has been burnt down.

Though he’s been conscious for less than minute, Gokudera immediately goes into both professional mode and personal (re: annoyed at Yamamoto) mode. “What do you mean your fucking apartment has fucking burnt down?” Admittedly, he veers a bit more in the direction of the latter, but whatever, it’s not like it’s anyone important.

Yamamoto laughs, because at twenty-two years of age he still thinks laughing is the appropriate response to life going to shit. “Oh, you know,” he says, as breezily as if they’re talking about the weather. “There was some smoke, some fire, and now my apartment is gone.”

“You idiot,” Gokudera snaps, rubbing his palm against his tired eyes; he’d only gotten two hours of sleep prior to Yamamoto calling, which is actually the best he’s done all week, and now the exhaustion is starting to hit him. Makes sense, considering Yamamoto has a way of draining the life out of him. “Are you hurt?”

“What? No, I’m fine. I wasn’t even home.”

Briefly, Gokudera wonders where Yamamoto was in the wee hours of the morning and what he was doing, but that’s before he remembers he doesn’t care. Clearly he needs caffeine to straighten his head out, maybe an IV of it for good measure.

His scowl deepens. “So, why are you calling me, then? I figured you’d need me to bail your dumb ass out of the hospital or something.”

“No, nothing like that, but…” At this, Yamamoto lowers his voice, and Gokudera understands from the buzzing of people and sirens in the background. “I just think it’s strange, you know? Considering the kind of work we do.”

Over the years, Gokudera’s learned to control his temper. It’s still there, as fierce and furious as ever, but he keeps it carefully bottled for the sake of his boss, for his family, and maybe for himself. Still, there are times when it spills out unchecked, times like now where he lets loose a string of hissing curses in both Japanese and Italian. On the other end of the phone, Yamamoto waits for him to finish in patient silence. “Gokudera?” He prods finally. He sounds vaguely amused, which makes Gokudera’s fist itch to punch Yamamoto in the mouth. Fucking twat.

“Yeah, I’m here. Look, just stay put, all right? I’m on my way.”

Yamamoto says something agreeable and a bit confused (how typical), but Gokudera doesn’t hear it as he hangs up and throws his phone in irritation. Without thinking, he glares at the empty side of his bed, suddenly feeling the weight of the letter shoved in his bedside dresser. Gokudera swears again and throws off his silk Italian sheets, stomping off to get dressed.

This week is off to a beautiful start.

*

Fifteen minutes later he shows up at the wreckage formerly known as Yamamoto’s household with two cups of crappy convenience store coffee and thinning patience. He feels like shit, but worse than that he looks like shit. Gokudera had caught a quick look at himself as he tossed on his clothes, and didn’t care much for the scrawny, unkempt, bruise-eyed person staring back at him. But he was too damn tired to fix himself, settling for pulling back his unkempt hair and throwing on jeans and a worn-out t-shirt leftover from high school. Gokudera can handle bad moods (his life is a bad mood, really), but he’s got an image to maintain, and the “hungover/possibly stoned college student” style he’s giving off right now is not it.

Sick though it might be, it’s comforting that Yamamoto doesn’t look much better. His hair is a dark, sweaty mess and his eyelids look like they weigh a hundred pounds. However, he pulls it together the moment he spots Gokudera, smiling and waving him over. That’s one of the things Gokudera’s always hated most about Yamamoto: how easy it is for him to keep up appearances, how seamless his transitions are. Even after all this time he still feels an old, childish pang of envy.

They’ve worked together for almost a decade now and Gokudera doesn’t quite loathe Yamamoto anymore. Like his temper, the years have calmed down the murderous distaste he once had for Yamamoto. Now more than anything it’s an annoyance, like an itch you can’t quite scratch. Over and over again Yamamoto’s proven himself, becoming Gokudera’s right-hand man as much as Gokudera is Tsuna’s. But Gokudera would rather have his fingernails ripped out than admit to Yamamoto’s face that he has any respect for him. So he walks to Yamamoto’s side and shoves a Styrofoam cup into Yamamoto’s waiting hand with more force than necessary before pinning him with narrowed eyes. “You couldn’t have at least waited until morning to have a goddamn crisis?”

“Technically, it is morning,” Yamamoto points out, though he adds “sorry, sorry!” when Gokudera punches him in the shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he catches a pair of cops watching them with raised eyebrows, but doesn’t pay them any mind; Hibari owns all the cops in this town, anyway.

“Whatever,” Gokudera mutters, voice muffled as he takes a swig of his coffee. The bitterness is soothing, one of the few things in his life that is.

“Thank you for coming,” Yamamoto says in the overtly sweet tone he reserves for pacifying Gokudera. “And for bringing coffee.”

“That is not even coffee,” Gokudera says, jabbing a free finger at the cup in Yamamoto’s hand. “That sugar and milk crap is swill and an insult to coffee’s good name.”

“Right, right.” They’ve had this argument at least a million times before, so by now Yamamoto’s learned to smile and nod along with Gokudera’s righteous Italian fury. “I’m sorry for making you come out in the middle of the night. You look like you could use the rest.”

Gokudera sips again at his coffee, fidgeting under Yamamoto the scrutiny of Yamamoto’s gaze. For someone so thick-headed he has an uncomfortably uncanny ability to read people; maybe it’s a gift he got in return for any semblance of common sense.

It’s a gift Gokudera wishes he had a receipt for. “Terribly sorry I didn’t put on my Sunday best for you. I didn’t know we’d be celebrating your newfound homelessness or I would have broken out the Prada.” Even for Gokudera that’s low, so he quickly tries to cover his ass. “Sorry, that was shitty. And sorry about your place, too.”

Yamamoto shrugs, because really, it’s nothing new. He wouldn’t make it as Gokudera’s partner if he didn’t have the skin to take Gokudera’s jabs. “It’s all right.”

Gokudera lets the subject drop, and they stand in awkward silence before Gokudera remembers exactly why he’s here. “So you think this might be mafia?”

“I think it’s worth considering.” Yamamoto’s features sharpen into the controlled, focused fashion that still makes Gokudera’s spine shiver even after all this time. In a few years he’ll be the perfectly realized hitman Reborn had always hoped for, and Gokudera’s still not sure how to feel about that. It’s good for the family, of course, to have someone like Yamamoto. However, the idea of the carefree Yamamoto of their teen years being drowning by a pool of blood bothers Gokudera more than he’d thought it would. Even if he didn’t like that Yamamoto, he knows what mafia life does to a person, and he wouldn’t want that for anyone who wasn’t born to have such a life. But they’ve all made their choices and the Vongola Decimo’s right-hand man is glad that their generation’s most talented hitman is loyal to his family rather than anyone else.

Snapping back into the here and now, Gokudera frowns. “It’s certainly a possibility,” he agrees, which isn’t saying much considering that in their world flaming dinosaurs is a possibility. “Have you noticed anything out of the ordinary?” Yamamoto raises an eyebrow, apparently sharing Gokudera’s thoughts, and Gokudera adds, “Anything even more out of the ordinary than usual? Like people following you around or whatever?”

“No, nothing. I would have said something to you if there was. Could it have been the Belavichi?” 

The feud between the Vongola and the Belavichi had been squashed as quickly as it sprang up, with no damage besides a few traded cocaine routes and Boss Belavichi’s wounded pride. But mafia feuds are common, and they’d ended on friendly enough terms. And even if they hadn’t, Tsuna has a funny way of gaining a person’s forgiveness and eventual loyalty; Mukuro and Xanxus’ unwilling but reliable cooperation is proof enough of that. “Could have been, but probably wasn’t,” Gokudera says eventually. He’ll look into it, of course, but their lives never end up so simple.

“So, there’s someone else after the Vongola?”

“After the Vongola, or after you, specifically,” Gokudera says, eyeing Yamamoto critically. “You haven’t fucked up lately, have you?”

“What would I have done to make someone do this?”

“I don’t fucking know! You could have broken some chick’s heart and her dad came after you in revenge or something.”

“I haven’t even dated anyone lately.”

“Fine, whatever,” Gokudera grumbles, waving an annoyed hand at Yamamoto’s perplexed face. “All I’m saying is shit happens.”

“Are you speaking from experience?”

Gokudera bristles like he’s been stabbed with a hot poker, and is tempted to leave right there and then. But he rationalizes that as much as it stings it’s not Yamamoto’s fault; after all, he’s not the one that ruined Gokudera’s relationship. “It’s probably not personal,” he replies, not-so-artfully dodging the question. “Which means, yes, the family has been targeted yet again. God, what utter fucking bullshit.”

“I’m sorry,” Yamamoto says, sounding genuinely sympathetic. Grimly, Gokudera wonders if he really does look that terrible.

“Don’t be, it’s not like you burned your own place down.” He pauses. “You didn’t, right?”

_“Gokudera.”_

“I’m just making sure!” He defends. “I’d be a shit right-hand man if I didn’t. Anyway, you’re staying with me until we straighten this out. It’s better if we stick together, and I don’t want the Tenth to worry.”

“What are you going to tell him?”

For a second, it doesn’t register that Yamamoto means Tsuna, and Gokudera gets that burning feeling again. “That you had an incredibly tragic yet mundane kitchen fire,” he snaps. “The truth, you moron! If the family’s in danger, the Tenth needs to know. Now, come on, you’d better move your ass if you don’t want to sleep in the gutter tonight.” Giving the smoking remains of Yamamoto’s former residence one last glance, Gokudera turns on his heel and tries not to be secretly grateful for the company. For all his bitching about humanity as a whole, the quiet of his own company doesn’t suit Gokudera. The silence in his apartment is already becoming deafening, so better Yamamoto than nobody at all.

*

Contrary to popular belief, Gokudera doesn’t sleep around. He’s not entirely sure how he got the reputation of being easy (maybe it’s all the leather), but he doesn’t exactly mind it. It’s better than people finding out the truth, which is that he’s some freak mutant strand of mafioso that feels the instinct to mate for fucking life.

He meets Michael at Ryohei’s bachelor party. They make some lifesaving sarcastic commentary about the rest of the bar’s less-than-stellar karaoke and exchange numbers over two beers too many. Still, it comes as a complete shock to Gokudera when two days later the sound of his cellphone pulls him out of budgeting the Vongola’s funds for the month. They meet for drinks that night, which leads to dinner and sex, both a rare occurrence for Gokudera. But Michael is handsome, and shares Gokudera’s love of music and acidic wit. More than anything, he’s normal, just a regular beleaguered accountant rather than some scummy mafia prick ready and willing to use Gokudera’s sexuality as leverage against the Vongola. So Gokudera sleeps with him and doesn’t regret it. For a while, he’s almost happy--as happy as he can be outside of the family—so naturally it all goes to hell.

Relationships with the outside world are impossible. Why Gokudera even bothered he’s still not entirely sure. He certainly knows better. But Gokudera’s human (again, all evidence to the contrary) and loneliness makes people stupid.

He shouldn’t be surprised when, a year and four months later, he comes back from a trip to Moscow to find a note and a spare set of apartment keys.

He still throws his espresso machine at the wall.

*

Even at three in the morning Tsuyoshi Yamamoto is lively, which doesn’t surprise Gokudera a bit considering the man is like a jackrabbit on bad ecstasy. He and the younger Yamamoto barely escape with their lives along with some of the spare clothes and toiletries Yamamoto keeps at his father’s house.

They don’t get back to Gokudera’s penthouse until sunrise. Gokudera feels like he’s about to drop dead, and he nearly collapses face-first onto his leather couch the second the door clicks behind him. Yamamoto’s in slightly better shape, enough to get a look around his temporary surroundings and let out an impressed whistle. It’s a far cry from the dumpy apartment Gokudera had as a teenager. Gokudera must be exhausted because he feels a sudden wave of fondness for that time, back when their biggest concerns were entrance exams and not getting carded over cheap whiskey. The combination of memory lane and the residual aching feeling in his limbs makes him feel about twenty years older than he is, and it takes more effort that he’d expected to fetch a spare set of sheets for Yamamoto.

“Thanks again, for doing this,” Yamamoto says as he helps Gokudera make up the couch.

“Sure,” Gokudera says, unable to muster up his usual speech about how it's not for Yamamoto, how Gokudera doesn't care. His fingers are useless at straightening the cloth, and it’s not like Yamamoto cares, anyway, so Gokudera throws in the towel. Michael’s keys are still on the kitchen counter and Gokudera pitches them at Yamamoto’s head with a bit more intensity than he was planning.

Fortunately, Yamamoto catches them, still sharp even though he gave up baseball years ago. He winces slightly at the bite of metal against his palm before looking at Gokudera questioningly.

“House’s no good if you can’t get into it, right?” Gokudera explains.

“Oh, yeah. Right. Th—“

“Thank me again and I’ll knock your teeth out,” Gokudera grumbles and slams his door before Yamamoto can say another word.

*

There must have been something in the water of the Yamamoto family home, because when Gokudera stumbles out of bed seven hours later Yamamoto is sitting with the newspaper and the expression of an overly eager shelter dog. “Morning!”

Gokudera glares at him, declining to reply in favor of putting as much coffee into his body as humanly possible. Except not, because his machine is still a shattered mess in his trashcan. He honestly considers going back to bed, but love for his family and the faint hope that Yamamoto would be smart enough to get breakfast (or lunch, or any food of any kind) drags his body to the living room. Fortunately, he’s rewarded for his faith with a massive plastic cup and three cheese doughnuts. In that moment, Gokudera resolves to be at least a little nice to Yamamoto today, and also to thank God.

“I’m looking for a new place,” Yamamoto says while Gokudera stuffs his face. “I figured you wouldn’t want me hanging around too long.”

“It’s fine,” Gokudera mutters, looking everywhere but Yamamoto’s face. “We’ve got bigger fish to fry. Just crash here until the dust settles.”

“I got a call earlier saying insurance is going to cover the fire, so I can give you rent, if you need it.”

“Yamamoto, does it look like I need your money?” It’s the first time Gokudera’s been able to say that in an earnest fashion and he’s proud of his success, even if it’s blood money.

“I know you don’t need it, but I don’t want to leech off of you.”

“How noble of you. Look, it’s not a big deal, all right? Besides, donating to charity’s good for my karma; I’m just using you for the greater good.” Which is somewhat true, except for the fact that in reality the “greater good” refers to Gokudera soothing his wounded pride and maybe reminding himself that not everybody leaves all the time. But whatever, Yamamoto doesn’t need to know that bit. Gokudera licks a bit of his icing off his thumb and adds, “You don’t seem very upset about it. Your place, I mean.”

“Well, it wasn’t as nice as yours is,” Yamamoto says with a smile, which Gokudera can concede to; the hellhole he had back in middle school has given Gokudera enough motivation to ensure he will never live in an ugly house ever again.

“But you’re still kind of, ah. Homeless,” Gokudera concludes, because there’s really no delicate way of putting it.

“It’s not so bad,” Yamamoto argues, leaning against Gokudera’s leather couch and stroking the Storm Cat dozing in his lap. “I get to live with you for a while, which is fun. I always wondered what you did when you went home, now I get to find out.”

Gokudera stares at him. “I don’t get you positive people,” he says flatly before shaking his head. “Even if you’re happy with our current situation it doesn’t change the fact that there’s an arsonist running around Japan who just happens to target mafia hitmen.”

“Right,” Yamamoto says, nodding. “So, you really think it’s someone after the Vongola?”

“Seems to be the best bet, considering you can’t remember pissing off anyone important. Which I have a hard time believing, but whatever; not everyone’s smart enough to get past your cover to be as annoyed with you as I am.”

“Haha, what?” 

“It probably wasn’t a hit,” Gokudera continues, as if uninterrupted. “If they only wanted you they would have just cut your big, dumb head off while you slept.”

“Wow, scary,” Yamamoto laughs.

“That’s the point of intimidation attacks, yes.”

“Was this the kind of stuff you did before you came to Namimori?”

“Don’t speak. Anyway, whatever the case is we need to tell the Tenth. He doesn’t need any more surprises.” Gokudera thinks of Reborn’s “tutoring” and shudders. “I’ll call Hibari, see if he knows anything. You sit here and try not to break anything. Better yet, just don’t touch anything, at all.”

“Sure, sure,” Yamamoto agrees, smiling wide enough to crinkle the skin around his eyes. The expression makes Gokudera suspect Yamamoto would grin and jump off a cliff blindfolded if someone asked him to.

One day, he’ll test this theory.

*

Incidentally, Hibari doesn’t know anything, and Gokudera’s irritated enough to cut the call before Hibari can vow to bite him to death. How the hell are any of them supposed to know what’s happening in Namimori if even _Hibari_ doesn’t? It’s not a promising way to start the morning. 

Gokudera’s shitty week finally hits its lowest point when an hour later one of his subordinates hands him a paper informing him the Vongola is almost bankrupt.

Dazed and incredibly confused, Gokudera opens his booking for the last few months in a desperate attempt to retrace his own steps. After five recounts he’s able to say with confidence that this isn’t directly his fault, but it’s little comfort considering the Vongola is still fucking broke.

Luckily for Francesca, Yamamoto enters the scene, giving her the escape route she needs to dodge her boss’ temper. She’s a sweet girl, Gokudera can admit that, and has proven herself to be both loyal and competent. Two years ago, he helped her pay off the gambling debts her father owed; they never speak of this, which is half the reason why they work so well together. Though Gokudera knows her history (what kind of man would he be if he didn’t?) he’s still perplexed at how a girl like her, a tiny blonde thing, could end up crowded by liars and murderers. 

Yamamoto hasn’t even had a chance to sit down before a near-shrieking Gokudera shoves the paper into his hands. He grimaces. “Yikes. Not good.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that, thank you,” Gokudera hisses. “I can’t even believe this. First, I get fucking dumped, then someone tries to bump you off, and now we have no fucking money. It’s like God is pointing at me and laughing.”

Wisely, Yamamoto chooses not to take Gokudera’s very obvious bait. “So, where’d all our money go?” He asks instead.

Gokudera sighs. It’s a good question, and Gokudera is bitter that he doesn’t have a decent answer to it. He had already put a call into the Vongola’s official treasury, and they were as annoyingly unhelpful as Gokudera predicted. So he took the luxury of hacking their system. Admittedly, Gokudera’s not the most skilled of hackers, but he’s smart enough to get the basics. He traced the funds to a private offshore account in the Caymans before the trail went cold. It wasn’t long until a cursing Gokudera threw in the towel and placed a call to Shoichi Irie. If anyone can figure this mess out, it’s Irie, and Gokudera has faith in him (as much faith as he can have in anyone, really) despite the incredibly wrong foot they got off on.

Yamamoto is staring at him expectantly, and Gokudera bites out, “I’m working on it, all right?”

“Okay,” Yamamoto says before grinning. “You shouldn’t be so mean to your subordinates, you know? They’re just trying to help.”

“If they really wanted to be helpful they could fall off the face of the planet and leave me the hell alone,” Gokudera mutters darkly. Though Gokudera’s loath to admit it, Yamamoto is right, and he resolves to buy Francesca something shiny and expensive to make up for being such a self-centered asshole. 

“Do you think this might have something to do with what happened to my apartment?” Yamamoto asks suddenly.

Gokudera raises his eyebrows. Maybe after all these years he’s starting to rub off on the idiot. “Not sure. My gut says, no, but...”

“Anything’s possible,” Yamamoto finishes.

“I don’t know what’s going on, but now we really need to talk to the Boss. The other Guardians should be notified, too; there’s a chance this could get very ugly very fast.”

*

Truth be told, not much about the mafia lifestyle bothers Gokudera. He can handle the blood and guts, the constant paranoia, the heat of a gun in his hand and taste of metal on his tongue. Gokudera was born to be a gangster; never once has he questioned this fact. That being said, the one duty of the Right-Hand Man that didn’t come naturally to Gokudera was conducting meetings.

The people he has to work with don’t make it easier. Ryohei is always interrupting him, Yamamoto gets bored and tries to chat up the Tenth who, bless his heart, is too kind and considerate of his family to say anything. Meanwhile, Hibari rarely shows up, Lambo is too young for mafia dealings, and Chrome is--well, Gokudera doesn’t have any problems with Chrome, actually. Aside from the fact that she shares a body with the bastard that tried to kill his boss, of course. 

Today, however, Gokudera isn’t putting up with any bullshit. He wonders if it comes across because the boardroom is surprisingly calm when he walks into it. It doesn’t take long for them to settle in and for Gokudera to catch everyone, minus Lambo and (predictably) Hibari, up to speed. Ryohei proclaims the whole situation to be “extremely terrible,” and offers to let Yamamoto stay at his place, which leads to an uncomfortable silence when Yamamoto pleasantly announces he’s happy at Gokudera’s. Chrome eyes the three of them, but stays mum; Gokudera knew there was a reason he’s come to like her. 

“Gokudera-kun,” the Tenth says, voice laced with worry. “What do you think we should do?” 

Gokudera hesitates; he hasn’t been looking forward to this moment. Out of the corner of his eye he catches Yamamoto smile and nod at him, and he clears his throat. “Well, to be honest with you, Tenth, there’s something I’ve been considering, and I think it might be a big help right now. I think we should look into strengthening our Italian ties. Right now, we have the Cavallone on our side, but truthfully, we could stand to branch out. The fact that most of our members are Japanese makes the Italians and Sicilians uncomfortable, and since we can’t win the yakuza we’d be better off reconnecting with our roots. We could repair our funds and, should it come to it, we’d have more manpower and weaponry if there’s a war. And the last thing we want is a mob war.” Tsuna flinches at this, and Gokudera gives him a moment to come to terms with what he’s just said. “It … won’t be easy. Mafia relations are tenuous at best, and you’re going to have to see some things--accept some things--we all know you’re against. But in the end, I think it’s the smartest choice.” 

Tsuna frowns. It’s common knowledge that dealing with Italy, with the real mafia, is never something he’s been fond of. “I can’t say I like it,” he admits. “But I’m inclined to agree.”

“I didn’t get any of that, but I think it’s an extremely good idea,” Ryohei pipes in, and Gokudera shoots him a glare.

“Whatever Gokudera thinks is best,” Yamamoto adds. Chrome nods and flashes Gokudera a small smile. 

“But, Gokudera-kun, how will you know which families are going to cooperate with us?” Tsuna asks. 

“Oh, believe me, Tenth, I already have it all figured out!” Gokudera assures. “Mafia families aren’t so hard to keep track of once you’ve been around them for a while. But I made a chart, in case you get confused,” he adds hastily, not wanting to offend the Tenth.

“That’s very considerate of you,” Tsuna says diplomatically as he flips through his copy of the dossier Gokudera gave them all. His brows furrow. “I feel like I’ve seen this man before,” he says softly. Gokudera looks over his shoulder. There’s a picture in front of Tsuna, the colors slightly faded and the edges worn with time. The man in it is of average height with a slightly rounded stomach mostly hidden by the fine tailoring of his suit. He has black hair, a mustache, and firm, yet kind dark eyes. Overall, he looks plain, certainly not the type of man to be feared, but Gokudera knows better. 

“His name is Alberto Turati. He’s the head of the Turati family, one of the most powerful families in cosa nostra. If we have his name and money backing the Vongola it would help to secure our position amongst the other families.” 

“You sure know a lot about this guy,” Yamamoto says.

“Of course I do; it’s my job to know these things, moron,” Gokudera replies irritably. “Besides, I should know him since technically speaking he is my father.” 

Tsuna’s eyes widen. “Gokudera-kun, that’s … Are you sure about this?”

“Tenth, don’t worry, it’s fine! I don’t mind at all!” Gokudera says, which is a complete lie. “Whatever is good for the family,” he adds, which is of course true. “Please, Boss. Let me do this.”

Tsuna stares at him before nodding. “All right, I trust you.” 

The words make Gokudera’s heart flutter. “Thank you, Tenth.”

“Does this mean we’ll be going to Italy, then?” Chrome asks.

Gokudera shakes his head. “Not you. Me, Yamamoto, and the Tenth will go. You guys need to stay here in case something happens.”

“That is extremely unfair,” Ryohei says with a pout.

“This isn’t a fucking vacation,” Gokudera snaps. 

Yamamoto chuckles. “Now, now. Can’t we all just get along?” 

“So, Italy?” Tsuna cuts on, looking overwhelmed and mildly terrified. “Will we be leaving soon?”

“With any luck. I have to make contact with the Turatis and confirm they’ll be willing to meet with us. There shouldn’t be any problems,” he adds when Tsuna frowns.

“Please be careful, Gokudera-kun,” Tsuna says.

“Wait, shouldn’t it be fine if it’s squid head’s father?” Ryohei asks, oblivious as always. 

“Yeah.” Gokudera smiles thinly. “It’s going to be a blast.”

*

**to be continued ******


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All roads really do lead back to Rome. (or, in this case, Palermo).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for: human trafficking, forced drug use/abuse, murder, torture, gore, abuse and murder of children, mentions of mental illness and medication, daddy issues, internalized homophobia, and general nasty mafia shit. proceed with caution.

Gokudera has one truly happy memory of his father. The majority of them are, on the surface, fairly pleasant; whatever problems he has with Alberto Turati, Gokudera can’t in good faith claim the man was ever abusive to him. It’s just that in hindsight a lot of his father’s good will rings false. Now Gokudera can understand that the beautiful clothes and endless books the man lavished on his son were an attempt at buying his affection. They were probably an apology, too, but Gokudera doesn’t care about any of that, not anymore. He’s made his peace with his lot in life. That’s why, sitting in his office with his phone in his hand, he is absolutely, positively not on the verge of throwing up.

There’s an image playing his head, like a jammed record. It’s all he can see, all he can hear. In it, he’s sitting at his father’s piano. He’s very young, still wide-eyed with clean hands and an open heart. Beside him sits his mother, a woman he knew only after she was long dead. She’s laughing, grinning ear to ear, and it’s strange to see a face so similar to his look so happy. His father is leaning between them, so different from the worn down man in the photo he gave to the Tenth. His usually overly serious face is only very lightly lined, wrinkled in a playful concentration as he tries (and fails) to tap a melody out on the piano’s keys. For one brief, shining moment, Gokudera could see it. It had been a crystal clear glimpse into another life. It was a life Gokudera was never meant to have, but he’s mourned it nonetheless. He’s spent almost twenty years of his life nursing the possibilities like a wound, and now, with one phone call, he’s going to rip the scabs off and pour battery acid into them.

It’s for the Tenth, he tells himself over and over again when he fingers tremble, when his instincts tell him to run. Anything for the Tenth.

Thirty minutes, four skeptical subordinates, and enough cursing to make a sailor blush later, and Gokudera’s paced around his office enough times he’s expecting the floor to collapse. He doesn’t miss the concerned glances Francesa shoots him through the window of his office, and he bites back the impulse to flip her off. Even Gokudera can recognize how unfair that would be.

Nobody believes him when he states his name and case, and though Gokudera expected this (Turati’s wayward bastard coming home? Say it ain’t so) it doesn’t make him any less frustrated. He just wants to get it over with, unsurprising considering he is notoriously terrible at sitting still and even worse at relying on other people. If he’s busy, Gokudera can manage. But instead he’s stuck here waiting, and immobility brings up bile and racing thoughts.

“Is it really you,” a voice buzzes in his ear, and Gokudera flinches despite himself. He can tell it’s not a question. There’s sincerity in that deep tone reminiscent of the old-school mafia movies he and Yamamoto used to watch as teenagers, and it pisses him off.

“Of course it’s me,” Gokudera snaps instinctively. “Who would be dumb enough to call you with a false claim?”

The man laughs. “Our line of work has a tendency to scramble one’s brain.”

Absurdly, that makes Gokudera think of Ryohei, and he snorts. “Well, whatever. It’s me, okay?”

“I believe you,” Alberto replies (fuck, Gokudera will not think of that man as ‘Father,’ no fucking way) “I was hoping I’d hear from you eventually. I’ve been following your, ah … illustrious career, and I must say, you’ve done well for yourself.”

You’re damn right I have, Gokudera thinks. Fortunately the politician in him is able to hold the snot-nosed brat in him at bay. As much as he’d like to have a knock-down, drag-out fight about his family history, the Vongola quite literally cannot afford it. “It’s all thanks to the Tenth,” he says instead. “Which is why I’m calling.”

“I figured as much. I’m not naive enough to think my children would contact me out of any fondness.”

Gokudera frowns. He’s always assumed that Bianchi stayed daddy’s little girl, and his sister has never done anything to contradict that belief. But he pushes that thought away for the moment, focusing on the situation at hand. “Look, I’m going to lay all my cards out on the table here.”

“I’m listening.”

“We’re broke. As in, there is barely any money left to the Vongola name. And I don’t know how exactly it happened yet, but it did, and now I need to find a way to keep my family from falling apart. You have money. You also have a good name, the kind that has a tendency to smooth over trouble--like, shall we say, the kind of trouble that arises when certain people are displeased by the number of Japanese in the Vongola’s ranks. The Vongola has the reach that you don’t, and we have technology you couldn’t possess if you tried for a million years. Do you see where I’m going with this?”

“You’re asking me for an alliance.”

“I am.”

“Permanent or temporary?”

“I’m willing to leave my options open, should all go well.”

Alberto hums thoughtfully, and Gokudera sucks on his bottom lip. “Well, it’s certainly a promising offer,” the man says finally. “And I really would like to help you, Hayato.”

Gokudera stomach turns at both the usage of his first name and the obvious, imminent rejection. “But what?” He bites out.

“To be honest with you, currently I’m not in the best place myself.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m on the edge of a civil war.”

“Bullshit. I pulled every bit of information I could find on you, and I didn’t see a damn thing that would imply that.”

“Of course you didn’t; you wouldn’t have come to me if you had. You’ve always been smart, Hayato, so very bright. I’m not surprised you’d do your homework on me. But I’ve been doing this much longer than you; I know how to cover my dirty laundry.”

Unease creeps through Gokudera’s veins, and he wonders if his gut’s been trying to tell him something all along. He had chalked his anxiety up to childhood fears, but maybe they hadn’t been so far off after all. “What’s going on?” The demand in his voice is dampened by nerves, and when he speaks it’s much softer than he had planned.

“It would probably be easier to show you. Give me your fax number.”

Gokudera has a second of amusement at the fact that the man still uses a fax machine before he rattles off the numbers. It takes less than a minute before the machine beside him goes off, and Gokudera grabs at the papers coming through with trembling fingers.

It’s not good news. Any optimism Gokudera had felt regarding this situation has long since dimmed, so he’s not expecting pleasantries. But he’s not expecting this, either.

There are three photos in Gokudera’s hands, and he spreads them out on his desk. The first is of a boy lying dead in what appears to be a basement. His eyes are frozen open and his skin is pale with death. He’s young, only around eight by Gokudera’s estimation, and there’s a bullet hole through the right side of his skull. Underneath it is a tattoo of a barcode and numbers. The same marking is on the other two victims, a teen girl and a young man not much older than Gokudera. All three have a series of pinprick-sized scars along their inner arms--they’ve been drugged, Gokudera concludes which, coupled with the tattoos...

A cold, lead pit forms in Gokudera’s stomach. “They’ve been trafficked,” he says finally, swallowing at the lump forming in his throat. “I thought you were above that dirty business.”

“You know that this isn’t my work, just as I know your boss deeply disapproves of the practice. They were found in my territory by cops and locals. The woman was alive when my men got to her, but not for long. She was pumped with heroin, her heart couldn’t take it.”

“To keep her complacent,” Gokudera mutters. “Typical.”

“Ever since we’ve begun working with the Mexican cartels, this business had become more and more common. Before that, most of the trafficking done was the Russians and yakuza, and I was content to leave it to them.”

“But not everyone shares your opinion.”

“No. The possibility was raised, once.”

“And?”

“I didn’t take kindly to it.”

Gokudera rolls his eyes. “So basically, you said you didn’t want to sell anyone, your subordinates got pissy and decided to go into business behind your back.”

“To put it succinctly, yes. Most likely the woman escaped and her meeting with my men was pure coincidence. The other two, however...”

“They’re a message. In that case, why not just eliminate them?”

“Because one, Joseph Giardia, is under the protection of an elected official. If I kill him and his men, I could lose my footing with the local government.”

“... Well, fuck.”

“So you see why my hands are tied, then.”

“Please, your hands are bound above your head and you’re hanging from a damn meathook.”

Alberto chuckles, which is a … remarkably calm reaction, considering the situation. Something clicks in Gokudera’s brain, and he narrows his eyes. “You son of a bitch.”

“The Vongola Guardians have quite the reputation. Your men are soldiers, strong and loyal. Any help you could offer would be great appreciated.”

“Spare me the diplomacy and just give it to me straight: if I bring my people to fight your war, what will you do for me?”

“Whatever I can. I can provide you with money, weapons, anything you need, and of course I’ll put in a good word for the Vongola with my associates. In return, your boss will help me with negotiations, which I hear are his speciality. Should those negotiations fall through, you and your Guardians will fight with me and mine. Does that sound fair to you?”

Though Gokudera is loathe to admit it, it sounds more than fair. “How do I know if I can trust you?” He stalls.

“You don’t,” Alberto says. “And even if you could know you still wouldn’t trust me; it’s not in your nature. But I give you my word on this, Hayato.”

Gokudera sighs, burying his face in his free hand as he weighs the scales. But no matter what he considers, there’s really only one option. “Make the arrangements,” he replies hoarsely. “Get us there as soon as possible, and send me the details.”

“I’ll keep you posted.” There’s a long pause before Albero adds, “Welcome home, Hayato,” and the line goes dead.

For a moment, Gokudera simply sits there, stunned. All roads really do lead back to Rome. (or, in this case, Palermo)

But he lets the moment goes, shakes the shock out of his bones, and gets to work. Time’s not on their side, and the sooner they get to Sicily, the better.

Gokudera snorts. Welcome home, indeed.

*

Crisis-mode Gokudera is remarkably similar to everyday Gokudera: they’re both obsessive, stubborn, and more than a little flammable. There are a lot of things that can be said about Gokudera (he’s man enough to admit the list of his flaws is lengthy), but let no one ever say he isn’t dedicated to his work.

The change in plans has everyone a bit out of sorts; flying halfway across the world to put their lives in jeopardy for a group of incredibly suspicious strangers isn’t really what any of them had in mind. Gokudera doesn’t speak with the Guardians long enough to truly gauge their reactions. He talks to Yamamoto long enough for Yamamoto to say something about an errand and “coming home late” (the phrasing leaves Gokudera slightly stunned). Frankly he just doesn’t have the time to sit and hold the Guardians’ hands every step of the way.

More concerning is Tsuna. It’s not that Gokudera doubts Tsuna (as if he could), but the Tenth is always a wreck during mafia conflicts. Tsuna worries so much for the people he cares about, but that’s what makes him such a good boss. He’s the kind of boss people follow because they want to rather than because of fear or coercion. Only Tsuna could get Gokudera, a notorious lone wolf, to become the kind of person worthy of leading the Guardians. That’s why Gokudera absolutely will not fail him.

According to the information his father’s secretary has sent him, they have about two hours before they have to be at the airport. It gives Gokudera enough time to finish up the paperwork he can’t pass off to Francesca, then call Irie and the local police on the drive home. To Gokudera’s immense frustration, neither call is all that helpful. The trace Irie put in place has infected his computer and he’s now battling a nasty virus. He’s all apologies about the matter, and by the fourth “sorry” Gokudera nearly pitches his phone out the window. In the case of Yamamoto’s apartment, there have been no suspects and not a single one of Yamamoto’s neighbors has come forward as a witness. All the more evidence that the fire was somehow mafia-related, Gokudera thinks; why else would people clam up about a burning building of all things?

By the time he gets back to his house, he’s already smoked a full pack of cigarettes and his hands won’t stop shaking. Gokudera’s brain has always had a habit of going on autopilot in times of stress, which is half the reason he’s able to function at all. Coming into the apartment he hears the sound of running water; somehow, despite the errand he had to run, Yamamoto’s managed to make it back before him. There’s a black duffel bag by Gokudera’s front door with Shigure Kintoki sitting beside it, meaning Yamamoto had the good sense to pack his travel bag before getting in the shower. They’re cutting it close, which means Gokudera doesn’t have time to do much else besides change into something more comfortable (he hates flying in suits) and double-check his own bag. Fortunately, everything’s in place--his dynamite, ammunition, spare suit are all untouched--and he’s in the process of tugging on jeans when there’s a knock at the door.

Gokudera frowns, certain neither of them were expecting company. He grabs the glock he keeps in the false-bottom of his coffee table and carefully pads to the door. “I can see your feet,” a familiar voice says from the hallway. Gokudera scowls and lowers his gun. “The hell are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you, too,” Michael replies without much feeling. “May I come in?” There’s a part of Gokudera, the wounded, perpetually eight years old part of him, that’s tempted to shoot Michael through the peephole. However, the rest of him, the twenty-two year old man that has never cared for dumping bodies before noon, swears and opens the door.

Michael looks … well, shitty, frankly. His hair is uncharacteristically mussed and shadows are forming under his dark eyes. It gives Gokudera a kick of satisfaction until he remembers he doesn’t look much better. Gokudera casts a quick glance around the hallway before closing the door. “Expecting company?” Michael asks, nodding at Gokudera’s hand.

If there’s anything Gokudera has learned over the last couple of years, it’s when to shut up. So he stays quiet, locking his jaw and looking Michael in the eye, daring the man to judge him.

“I always wondered what you did,” Michael says. “You have too much money and paranoia to be just a businessman.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you,” Gokudera mutters.

“No,” Michael agrees softly. “Not at first.”

“Be grateful I never told you about my work; it wouldn’t do you any favors.”

“I believe you,” Michael says before shooting the bathroom door a meaningful look.

“It’s not what you think it is,” Gokudera snaps, feeling a blush spread across his neck. “He’s just a guy I work with; he’s going through a rough patch so he’s crashing here in the meantime. And I had the space to spare,” he adds, unable to suppress the urge to be nasty.

“I forgot a few things, to answer your question,” Michael says; unsurprisingly, he’s always been the bigger man in their relationship.

“Take whatever isn’t mine. Or Yamamoto’s. And make it quick, I’ve got a flight to catch.” Michael nods and wordlessly heads to the bedroom. Gokudera should probably think of it as “their bedroom,” should be brooding over this fact, or maybe kissing major ass to get Michael to stay, because really, who else is going to put up with his bullshit? Instead, he plops down on his couch (Jesus, how does it already smell like Yamamoto?) and pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingertips, waiting.

It takes about ten minutes before Michael reemerges with a bag-full of junk; Gokudera spots running shoes, hand lotion, and a day planner before he remembers he doesn’t care. “I’m sorry about the letter,” Michael says from the other side of the room, shifting his weight in obvious discomfort.

“If you’re so sorry you shouldn’t have left it in the first place.” Unfortunately for him Gokudera is not feeling particularly empathetic. “Or am I so heartless that I didn’t deserve a proper, face-to-face dump?”

“You’re not heartless, but you don’t make it easy for people to love you. Not everything is a fight, you know. Not everyone has the time or the energy to go to battle day after day. ”

“Right, thanks for the reminder; I’ll keep it in mind for the next guy that decides to move into my house and fuck everything up.”

“I did love you,” Michael says, sounding weary. “Take care of yourself, Hayato.”

The sound of the front door clicking is like a kick to the stomach. Gokudera puts it aside for now. There will be time later to tear himself up about this; he’ll blow some shit up and get spectacularly wasted and probably hate himself some more, but not now. Not when the Tenth needs him and certainly not when Yamamoto is dripping on the floor and staring at Gokudera like he’s got seven heads.

“I swear I wasn’t listening,” Yamamoto says, raising his hands in defense. “I just—“

“Don’t.” Even to his own ears Gokudera sounds icy. “I’ll meet you in the car.”

Wordlessly, Yamamoto nods. Maybe the past few years have taught him when to shut up, too.

*

They’re stuck in traffic on the way to the airport when Yamamoto decides it’s a great time to confuse the hell out of Gokudera. “Tsuna doesn’t care, you know?”

“The Tenth doesn’t care about what?”

“About your, uh, thing. You know.” Gokudera does not, in fact, know, and stares at Yamamoto blankly until he adds, “the gay thing.”

Gokudera nearly spills his fourth cup of coffee all over Yamamoto’s seats. “What?! Why would the Tenth know a thing like that?”

“I don’t think he know-knows, you know? He just kinda … suspects.”

“The Tenth isn’t some petty gossiper; don’t accuse him of such a thing,” Gokudera growls, partly to cover up the fact he’s watching his worst nightmare come to life.

“I’m not!” Yamamoto says, raising his hands in surrender until the car ahead of them finally pulls out. “It’s just … we talked about it once, back in school. Tsuna thought it might be a possibility, since you never cared about any of those girls that gave you things. I told him I didn’t think you liked people, period,” he adds with a grin.

Despite the dread collecting in his chest, Gokudera smiles faintly, but the expression is quickly wiped away by the thought that Tsuna might be disgusted by him. The boss is too kind, tolerating someone like Gokudera, a guy who operates in lies and secrets and only brings shame upon his family. “You didn’t have anything better to talk about? Something other than how much of a fucking homo I am?”

“Tsuna doesn’t care,” Yamamoto repeats firmly. “I don’t care, either. Nobody cares, or thinks any less of you, or whatever it is you’re worried about. There’s nothing wrong with being gay to begin with; just be happy.”

“With all due respect, I’m not going to take romantic advice from a guy who hasn’t had a girlfriend in, like, a century. When did you become such an afterschool special, anyway?”

“When my partner and best friend thought he couldn’t tell me about a really big part of his life,” Yamamoto says, sounding wounded.

Gokudera sighs, ignoring the tiny pang of guilt thrumming in his chest. “Don’t get all offended, it’s not like anybody else knows, either.”

“Not even Bianchi?”

Gokudera feels horrified at the thought alone, and turns to Yamamoto with wide eyes. “My God, are you insane? Especially not Bianchi. Jesus, she’d never let it go. And she’d try to set me up with every other _mafioso_ she meets.”

“Well, maybe not Bianchi,” Yamamoto agrees with a laugh. “But I’m glad you’re not going it alone now.”

“Stop sounding so damn serious about it. I’m gay, Yamamoto, not terminal. And don’t think that you can spin this into some lecture on friendship and trust because—“

Yamamoto frowns as they pull into the airport parking lot. “Gokudera, I wouldn’t do that,” he says, sounding a bit hurt at what Gokudera is implying. “I won’t tell anyone, either. I just want you to know you can tell me stuff. Even if you don’t want to or you don’t plan to, I’ll still be there for you. Is that really so bad?”

“Other than the fact that you sound like a poorly written dime-store greeting card, I suppose it’s tolerable,” Gokudera mutters, ignoring the way Yamamoto beams at him. “So, does this mean I get to learn your deepest, darkest secrets?” He adds mockingly. As if Yamamoto Takeshi of all people would even have any deep, dark secrets (besides his life as a university student and sushi chef by day and world-renowned mafia hitman by night, of course)

“Maybe someday,” Yamamoto replies with a sly grin before reaching out to touch Gokudera’s wrist. His fingers are long, much longer than Gokudera’s, it and makes Gokudera feel ridiculously small. “I’m sorry, about overhearing you earlier. And I’m sorry you’re unhappy.”

“When am I ever happy?” Gokudera grumbles to cover up the weird fluttering in his heart, and unbuckles his seatbelt with more effort than necessary (why Yamamoto insists upon seatbelts considering their work he’ll never understand, but he’s learned it’s easier to just shut up and buckle in)

Yamamoto frowns. “That doesn’t make it any better.”

“Well, it doesn’t make it any worse, either.”

“Why are you always so stubborn when people try to help you?”

“Because I don’t have time for this!” Gokudera snaps, turning on Yamamoto with the fury of a wild animal. “I don’t have time to sit around and talk about my fucking feelings! I have a job to do, a job that includes dismantling a human trafficking ring, bribing a government official, and making nice with the friendly neighborhood mobsters, and I cannot do any of that shit if I miss my plane because I was chatting in a car with you, so let’s just go, all right?”

It takes about half a second for Gokudera to feel like absolute garbage. It’s not like any of this is Yamamoto’s fault. Before he can apologize, Yamamoto is out of the car and grabbing their bags, leaving Gokudera with his jaw hanging open and a bitter taste in his mouth.

Fucking _brilliant_.

There’s just enough time for Gokudera to squeeze in one more cigarette before heading to the men’s room to patch up (only for the Tenth would he wear one of these godforsaken things). Next to the box of Nicodem is a bottle of valium courtesy of Shamal, and Gokudera swallows one of the tiny blue pills down with faucet water for good measure before going to find the family.

He’s the last one there, and Tsuna’s face relaxes visibly once they’re all together. “Gokudera-kun! I was afraid you wouldn’t make it.”

“You’re extremely late,” Ryohei cuts in with a smirk.

“Fuck off, I am not,” Gokudera says before remembering himself. “Tenth! Forgive me for worrying you, it was thoughtless of me!”

Tsuna chuckles, the sound mixed with fondness and a bit of anxiety. “It’s fine, really! We’re all a bit, um. Stressed. But we’ll feel better once we get there.”

Gokudera doesn’t miss the muscle working in Yamamoto’s jaw or his uncharacteristic silence.

“You’re right, Tenth,” he agrees. “You always are, of course! But we really should get going.”

Tsuna nods jerkily, then slaps a hand to his forehead. “Crap, I almost forgot! Reborn called earlier,” he says, ignoring Gokudera’s horrified yelp at his casual self abuse.

“Reborn?”

“Yeah, he knew about the trip somehow. But that makes sense. I mean, he always seems to know everything, so … Anyway, he wished us good luck.”

“Well, with Reborn’s blessing we can’t go wrong,” Gokudera says, which is partially true. Despite some of Reborn’s more … unorthodox training practices, it’s clear that deep down he does have some fondness for the Vongola. If push came to shove, there’s at least a chance he’ll help them. That thought coupled with the Valium taking effect helps take the edge off Gokudera’s nerves.

For the most part everyone seems to be doing all right. Chrome’s nervous about flying (ones of the few thing she and Gokudera have in common is their mutual dislike of it) while Ryohei is eager to get started. Lambo and Hibari are staying in Namimori, same as the original plan. Haru and Hana are also staying behind, but they’re on alert in case they’re needed; considering the former is a journalist and the latter is a lawyer, they often are. Kyoko’s staying with Hana, just in case someone think it’s smart to attack the Tenth’s wife while he’s away. And Bianchi, well. Gokudera couldn’t bring himself to tell her about the whole mess. True, the years have brought them closer, and having Bianchi as an ally is always better than having her as an enemy. But the prospect of being with her under their father’s roof makes him queasy for a reason other than memories of food poisoning.

The plane turns out to be a private jet, owned and thoughtfully loaned out by the Vongola’s newest patron. Yamamoto doesn’t look at Gokudera once while they board, and Gokudera resolves to fix that once they’ve both had a chance to cool down. In the meantime, he focuses on running through Italian with Tsuna and Chrome--Ryohei’s a lost cause at this point, asleep before they even take off. It’s not long before Tsuna joins him, his head resting on Gokudera’s shoulder while he snores softly, and Chrome busies herself with an Italian travel guide she picked up at the airport.

Sensing opportunity, Gokudera works on freeing his numb shoulder. He slides a pillow under Tsuna’s head to maintain support before walking over to where Yamamoto is sitting with his laptop. “Are you seriously playing Solitaire?” Gokudera asks, peering over Yamamoto’s shoulder. “What are you, eighty?”

Yamamoto glares at him. Gokudera sighs heavily. It’s a good thing they rarely have a real argument, because when they do it’s excruciating. Gokudera would rather light his hair on fire than deal with a truly pissed off Yamamoto. But since he doesn’t want the Tenth to die of smoke inhalation, he bites the bullet and sits in the seat across from Yamamoto. “Look, I know I was a dick earlier. A massive one. I was--I _am_ freaked, and I took it out on you. It was shitty, and I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

“You always get like this when you’re worried about something,” Yamamoto says after a moment, closing his laptop while regarding Gokudera thoughtfully. “Which is why I don’t understand why you bottle everything up instead of just talking to me.”

“It’s just... that’s not how I do things. You know that.”

“How’s that worked out for you?”

Gokudera winces. “Are we back here again?” He asks uneasily. The last time he saw Yamamoto this angry was coincidentally the last time he and Yamamoto discussed Gokudera’s feelings. That was also the time Gokudera had ended up taking a sword to the face. Needless to say, it’s an experience he isn’t eager to repeat.

Yamamoto’s expression is carefully neutral. “You tell me.”

“What do you want me to say, Yamamoto?”

“Anything. You can’t keep it all to yourself.”

“I’m not--”

“Yes, you are. You didn’t tell me about your plan with your father even though we were together right before the meeting, and you didn’t say anything about some guy outside the family living in your house. I know, I know, it’s not my business,” Yamamoto says when Gokudera opens his mouth to protest. “I know you like your privacy, and whatever you do in your personal life is up for you to decide. But you can’t do everything on your own.”

“I know that,” Gokudera snaps, frowning when he sees the Tenth twitch in his sleep. “I wouldn’t be going to--to this guy if I wasn’t perfectly aware of how incapable I am.”

“Don’t twist my words, Gokudera. Don’t say things you know I don’t mean. We all need each other, that’s why we’re family. That’s why our family works. You’re not some outsider looking in anymore.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Yamamoto pauses, gaze on the clouds drifting by. “I know what happened to my apartment,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“What?! How could you not--” Gokudera swallows the rest of his sentence, the irony too much to bear. “When did you even figure this out?”

“This afternoon driving back from the office.” So that was his “errand,” Gokudera realizes, grimacing. “I figured I’d drive by my place, see if there was anything there. Turns out there was.”

“Please tell me you at least killed the bastard.”

“I couldn’t. He’s just a kid, only twelve years old.”

“That’s little comfort to me; I’d already wracked up a nice body count by that age.”

“I know,” Yamamoto says patiently before his expression turns pleading. “Let me handle this. I think I can help him, and you’ve got enough on your mind as it is.”

Gokudera frowns. His gut reaction is to refuse and take the kid out the second he gets back to Japan. But that’s not exactly the way to win back Yamamoto’s favor, and despite everything he’s done Gokudera’s not sure he has what it takes to murder a child in cold blood. “Fine, take care of your budding delinquent. See if you can show him the errors of his ways.”

Yamamoto smiles, relieved. “Thank you.” His sunny expression doesn’t last long, however. “You have a really bad feeling about this, don’t you?” He asks, brows creased in concern.

Gokudera curses, wondering when he became such an easy mark. “Don’t tell the Tenth,” he says after a long pause, voice small. “But I need you to do something for me.” Yamamoto nods. “I need you to take care of him, of them, if anything happens to me. Don’t interrupt,” he says, raising a hand to silence Yamamoto’s protests. “It’s not like it was before. I’m not the same stupid guy willing to piss away his life for nothing. This isn’t a suicide mission. But it’d be just as dumb to ignore the possible consequences of our line of work. If I go down, I need to know you can step in for me. You’re the only one I trust to look after them.”

Yamamoto blinks, seemingly stunned. “What?” Gokudera snaps, suddenly feeling uncomfortably warm.

“Nothing, nothing,” Yamamoto says. “It’s just … nice to hear you say that, is all. You’re not usually so honest about how you feel.”

“You calling me a liar?”

“Not a liar, just a master of disguise.” At this, his face softens. “I’ll keep them safe, Gokudera. I promise,” he says, and thankfully after that the conversation peters out. Gokudera, however, doesn’t miss the constant nervous glances the man casts his way--or the way Yamamoto squeezes his shoulder when he thinks Gokudera has fallen asleep. The way this is going, Yamamoto’s mother hen tendencies are going to be the biggest problem of all.

*

It’s early morning by the time they land; the sky is slick like oil, with smears of clouds and spots of stars tossed in. Chrome and Ryohei both remark on the beauty around them, though Ryohei’s absurdly loud commentary has Gokudera itching for aspirin and a cigarette. The second they’re outside the plane he’s lighting up, fingers shaking from a combination of nerves and chilly fall air. Sicily is exactly how Gokudera remembers it: beautiful and rotten. It doesn’t feel like home to Gokudera; home will always be at the Tenth’s side in Namimori. But the profile of the city, the salt smell of the ocean--all of it is so achingly familiar it churns Gokudera’s stomach. Gokudera’s spent years trying to scrub Sicily out from under his skin, but now more than ever it’s clear this place is in his bones, as much a part of him as nicotine and nitroglycerine.

There are two cars waiting for them, and Gokudera realizes he recognizes both drivers, give or take some stray gray hairs and gained weight. An odd combination of nostalgia and vertigo hits him, but is quickly pushed aside in favor of mind-numbing exhaustion. There’ll be plenty of chances for uncomfortable reunions in the next couple of days; right now Gokudera’s biggest concern is making sure his family has a safe place to rest for the night.

It takes about an hour for both cars (one with Gokudera and Tsuna, the other with Yamamoto, Chrome, and Ryohei) to reach the mansion; at this point, Gokudera can only regard it with resignation and veiled disgust. The drivers take their bags inside while the Vongola all but sleepwalk into their new headquarters. Gokudera’s in front, just in case, which means he’s in prime position to get a nice, long look of Bianchi.

She’s minus her googles and plus a scowl even more menacing than her usual expression. “Did you truly think you could deceive me, Hayato?” She asks, voice laced with tranquil fury.

Gokudera goes down like a sack of potatoes, his knees digging into the concrete as bile crawls up his throat. Behind him, Tsuna squeaks in horror while Yamamoto kneels down to place a hand on Gokudera’s shoulder. “Are you okay?” He asks.

“I’m dead,” Gokudera croaks. “I’m so fucking dead. Please, just kill me now, and put me out of my misery.”

Yamamoto sighs and clamps a callused hand over Gokudera’s eyes. “Bianchi-san, please--”

“Do not interfere, Yamamoto Takeshi,” Bianchi says, deadly calm, and Yamamoto tenses up. If there’s anything he and Gokudera have in common, it’s the good sense to be fucking terrified of the poison chef. “Hayato, how could you come to this place without telling me?”

Gokudera swallows, reluctantly grateful that he doesn’t have this conversation literally face to face. “Why would I tell you? How did you even know we were coming? Did he tell you?”

“Didn’t you know? Your boss asked me to meet you here.”

“What?! The Tenth would _never_ \--”

“It’s true,” Tsuna cuts in, sounding abashed. “I asked for Bianchi-san’s help. It was Reborn’s idea, actually. He figured that having Bianchi-san on our side might make things go a bit more smoothly. And I figured maybe it might make you less stressed, since you’re not, well--since you and your father aren’t … y’know...”

 _Bless the Tenth’s sweet, misguided heart_ , Gokudera thinks, in between resisting the urge to puke on his own shoes.

“Could we possibly talk about this inside?” Yamamoto asks. In response, Bianchi silently opens the mansion’s door, and wordlessly the Vongola follow her inside. It’s hardly the most encouraging of starts, and Gokudera's stomch turns for entirely non-Bianchi related reasons as Yamamoto lends an arm to lead him inside. (Not that his sister's literally poisonous glare is doing anything to help matters, of course).

The truly horrifying thing is that nothing has changed. It's all the same, from the shitty artdeco paintings to the marble staircase he split his knee on when he was six. Nostalgia, deja vu, and vertigo swirl together in a cocktail stronger than any drink he's ever had. When Yamamoto reflexively tightens his hold, Gokudera doesn't resist, not trusting his feet to hold his own weight. (Ironic, considering he's spent years trying to stand on his own)

As they walk the winding halls, Gokudera notices there is one thing that's changed. For better or worse, there's no trace of him in the house. There had been a family portrait in the main dining hall once, a space now occupied by a pastel of pink and blue flowers--his stepmother's doings, no doubt. The lack of Bianchi is what really startles Gokudera. She had commanded this house as a child: endless pictures of Bianchi cooking, playing the piano, wearing frilly dresses and dirt-smeared overalls had papered wall after wall in the house. Now, if the design was anything to go by, it seemed as if Alberto Turati had no children at all.

Bianchi herself is as quiet as the grave as she leads the Vongola to their rooms. Not for the first time, Gokudera finds himself trying to guess what the hell his sister is thinking. 

There's one room he hasn't entered yet, hasn't allowed himself to enter. It's the same room Gokudera swore to himself fourteen years ago he'd never set foot in again. Inhaling a shaking breath, he clasps the golden handle and twists.

Even in the darkness he can find his way around; he remembers to step lightly on the creaking floorboard from all the time he'd spent sneaking into this very same room. On nights like these, nights where his brain ran too fast for his body, Gokudera would come to this room and think of the woman with the angelic touch. More than once his father found him sleeping at the piano's feet the next morning. Gokudera grimaces at the memory even as he lifts the piano's cover and fingers the keys. The ivory is cool and familiar beneath his touch, even though he hasn't played in years. Somehow, it's still second nature. 

If Gokudera concentrates hard enough, he thinks he can remember her exactly: the softness of her hands, thesound of her laugh, the warmth and lightness he felt after spending just a moment at her side. If he tries, _really_ tries, Gokudera's sure he can make her real again. 

_(There’s an image playing his head, like a jammed record. It’s all he can see, all he can hear...)_

Vaguely, he's aware of his eyes growing heavy and his conscious fading, but he's too tired and heartsick to do anything but give in. That night, sleeping on the edge of his dead mother's piano, Gokudera dreams of broken keys and long gone faces, and wakes feeling more tired and haunted than ever.

*

**to be continued.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLLOW LAUGHTER wow this sure did take a long time didn't it?????? 
> 
> i am so So SO sorry this took like a century and a half. i've been ridiculously busy these last couple of months (i moved, started a new job, and started college) and my writing's taken a hit, unfortunately. 
> 
> but!!!!! i promise this fic is not abandoned and with luck the next chapter won't take seventy million years (the sad thing is that this chapter has been nearly completed for m o n t h s and i just. kept forgetting. i'm trash ugh)
> 
> SO YEAH this chapter was mostly just plotbuilding, but i hope you enjoyed it and that it was somewhat worth the wait. i really appreciate the feedback i've gotten, and would love to hear more from you guys! if you want to talk to me, my tumblr is erwinsmiths.tumblr.com, and i'll be tracking the 'fic: per aspera ad astra' tag. 
> 
> thanks for sticking with me, buds!!!! see you next chapter!!!!!!!!

**Author's Note:**

> somehow wondering about bianchi and gokudera's family turned into this giant thing. i don't even know anymore, i've clearly lost control of my life. um, so i took the liberty of giving bianchi and gokudera's dad a name since they don't get one in canon (wtf amano) and also bianchi's mom. and some other stuff. 
> 
> the title can be translated like a million different ways but basically means "go through hard shit to get to glory" so yeehaw, let's do this.


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